Saraphine

            “Oh, what a beautiful instrument.” The woman’s hand hovered over an elaborately carved flute. “Is it from ivory, I wonder?”

            “Bone, actually,” I said, overhearing her comment as I came through the door. Her fingers snatched back, and I wanted to snort. “Although why ivory is more acceptable in polite society, I have never understood. How is a tusk or horn from some creature more elegant than a bone from the same one?” The woman stared at me, faint revulsion settling in the lines about her nose and mouth. The boy at her side, her son, I assumed, however, suddenly looked fascinated. Apparently a bone flute was far more interesting than a normal one.

            “Bone?” he asked eagerly. “What kind? Is it from a moose?” A moose? What the heck? Of all the random animals he could have picked, he picked a moose?

            “Uh, no, actually. It’s –”

            “Shark?” he interjected excitedly.

            I frowned, thinking. “I don’t think sharks have bones.”

            “Then what is it?”

            His mother looked ready to leave, but I answered anyway. “Human.” The boy’s eyes widened while his mother blanched. He turned to gaze at the flute with even greater respect. I rested my hands on my knees and continued. “Apparently, there was once a wealthy man whose beloved wife adored music. When she died, he was so heartbroken that in order to honor her, he had her bones carved or incorporated into several different instruments. However, this act bound her soul to those instruments, so while her husband eventually died and found whatever rest there is beyond the grave, she is trapped, her existence unnaturally prolonged on this earth. They say that whoever tries to play music on the instruments of her bone are driven mad by her pain and tortured desire, and in the end they all commit suicide. She is trying to kill herself, you see.”

            “Cool,” he breathed. “Mom, can we buy it?”

            “No!” she snatched his hand and dragged him unwillingly around me, escaping the store.

            A noisy sigh interrupted my triumph. “Saraphine, could you try not to disturb our customers into leaving? It’s not good business.”

            I straightened, smirking a little as I turned to look at the owner of the store, my boss. “What? I was just explaining the history of the item. Besides, I think it’s a romantic story.”

            “Yes, but not everyone is quite as morbid as you.”

            “Whatever. Did you look at her? She wasn’t going to buy anything.”

            “She might have, if you’d given her time to make it to the teacups,” he said, adjusting his old glasses.

            I scoffed. “I doubt –”

            “And if you resisted the urge to inform her that the blue china was used to drink blood by a desperate woman dying of a blood disorder.” He sent a quelling look in my direction.

            “Such a spoilsport, old man,” I complained with a smile. He rolled his eyes.

            “You are the only thing making me old.”

            “I’m pretty sure that it’s your fifty plus years doing that.”

            “Forty-nine,” he twitched. “I’m only forty-nine! Still young! Now get to work.”

            I laughed. “You’re the boss, Mr. Pullson.”